


A fool's prediction

by Green_Sphynx



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: A story about daring rescues and cesspits, Canon-Typical Violence, Claustrophobia, M/M, Orlesian accents, Tarot Reading - Freeform, Vandalism, i guess, that is not how tarot readings work I know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-06 02:15:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11026485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Green_Sphynx/pseuds/Green_Sphynx
Summary: Handerlympics entry for Team Canon: A foolish decision leads to a daring rescue... but maybe the true foolishness was to try that rescue alone. But Hawke wouldn't be Hawke without his excellent sense of dramatic timing and good hair!





	A fool's prediction

**Author's Note:**

>  
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>   
> 
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> Author: Green Sphynx  
> Prompt: The Hanged Man  
> Title: A fool's prediction  
> Notes: Blood and shit flows, but nothing beyond what we're used to from the games 

“Ohhh, but the Hanged Man is so _filthy_ ~”

“It _is_  filthy.”

Anders just rolled his eyes at his friends’ antics, but he had to agree. The Hanged Man was filthy. Especially so for a sheltered mage of noble birth.

Thinking back about the way _he_  acted when he was younger and ended up in a filthy tavern like the Hanged Man on one of his escapes, he feared the worst for poor Emile. And Anders hadn’t been half sheltered, nor noble.

He gave Hawke a pleading look, and Hawke wordlessly acquiesced by leaving for the Hanged Man to find the runaway mage straight away. He even only peeked into two rooms on the way out.

And yet, a small two hours later, Anders felt terrible about it all.

He followed Hawke meekly back to the Hanged Man after they had delivered the young mage safely back to the Gallows. He hated just about everything about what had just happened.

Justice wanted to rage at Hawke for sending that mage back to the wretched Gallows. But Anders knew painfully well that Emile had no chance to survive outside the Circle. They had raised him so terribly he was entirely dependent on the constant care of living in a Circle, unable to do much more than wipe his own arse after shitting. And even that was questionable, after the display in the Hanged Man earlier.

Anders hated to admit it, but Emile was better off in the Circle of Magi. Not the Gallows for sure, but a Circle nonetheless.

Justice didn’t want to admit it at all, leaving Anders in a rotten inner argument about how honourable his very own thoughts were while following to another evening of being surrounded by drunk assholes without being allowed to touch a drop of that sweet oblivion.

Or foul oblivion, by the smell of Corff’s brew.

But the worst was the feeling of guilt.

The guilt that he had allowed another young man be taken there, and he hadn’t even argued this time. He hadn’t even tried to stop Hawke.

He had just seen that helpless boy, raised to be so stupid he could barely find his own arse with both hands, and silently agreed he needed to return to the Circle.

He had sworn he’d _never_  turn any mage over to the Circle willingly, that he’d _always_  try to save them. And here he was, still seeing Emile’s back in his mind’s eye as the young man walked back through those gates.

He had betrayed Emile and himself by allowing it, and the guilt was eating at him.

“I believe your mage may have swallowed his tongue, Hawke. He has not made a single remark about the injustice of the Circle since we left the Hanged Man earlier.”

Anders bristled, lashing out as guilt stabbed him in the gut. “Didn’t expect _you_  to be the one to miss it, elf. Remind me to prepare you an extra detailed monologue about mage rights next time, to make up for the loss.”

Fenris scowled, looking mildly nauseous at the thought alone. He was going to answer too, but Hawke was quick to insert himself between them, slipping an arm around Anders’ shoulders.

Anders had to refocus on his lover’s face, suddenly so close, and was taken aback by the worry he saw there.

“You _have_ been awfully quiet,” Hawke said, lowering his voice to no longer incorporate Fenris in their conversation. “Are you alright? I know you don’t like me sending mages back to the Circle and I’m sorry, but I really think Emile would be better off there. A few more days of freedom and he would have himself robbed naked and murdered in an alleyway, without doubt.”

Anders pressed his lips together to a thin line, even more guilt washing over him as he _agreed_. Justice raged inside his head, a deep throbbing headache slowly starting to build at the combined confusion and anger of the spirit in his head.

He agreed and he hated it.

He agreed and it made him feel filthy.

“I’ll be fine,” he muttered non-committally, not shrugging Hawke’s arm off but not making any attempt to keep up a conversation either. Hawke must’ve sensed his unwillingness to talk, and rather than prodding him further he let his arm slide down to Anders’ waist, continuing in silence.

Fenris made a noise of disgust behind them and prompted Varric’s teasing, and for a moment Anders could pretend everything was normal. For a moment he could pretend to forget about Emile de Launcet, who would still not get a chance to stand in the rain or cook his own meal.

“Maker’s breath! What happened there?”

Suddenly Varric was rushing past them and Anders’ head snapped up. Hawke released him to follow after the dwarf right as Anders spotted what set him off.

The Hanged Man was one hanged man poorer tonight.

The giant wooden statue had fallen, laying on the pavement before the entrance. Corff, Isabela and a number of Lowtowners were standing around, the former cursing all the colours of the rainbow into the sky and Isabela looking more fascinated than she probably should with the heavy chain that had held the statue in her hands.

“How in the Void...” Anders was the last to follow to the scene, feeling too flabbergasted by the whole display to react properly.

Corff kept cursing, Varric had now joined in, and Hawke was trying to extract the chain from Isabela’s hands.

“How did this happen?”

“Looks like the chain broke. Bad steel, too old. Rusted through ages ago.”

Anders glanced at the old Lowtowner next to him, grunting his agreement. “Sounds fair. But why now? There’s no heavy wind or rain or anything to make it snap.”

“Someone is about to do something foolish, no doubt,” the old man shrugged. “It was instable anyway.”

“Say what now?” Anders turned properly to face the man now, one eyebrow quirked. “Isn’t it way too early for people to be that drunk?”

The man laughed, a wheezy, creaky noise that spoke of too many years in the bad Lowtown air. “No drunks, lad. Just a foolish action. Don’t you know what an inverted Hanged Man means?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Anders admitted honestly. He was getting a bad feeling about this, although he wasn’t sure why yet.

“You were here earlier, weren’t you? And it was still fine then. And now you feel guilty, and it fell.” The man eyed him shrewdly. “You can’t run from your problems forever, Healer. Face your fears, and that feeling of guilt. _You’ll_ do something foolish.”

“Are you saying this is _my_  fault?” Anders’ voice hitched up slightly, and he cringed when it drew Hawke’s attention. His lover was hurrying towards him immediately, and Anders quickly took a step away from the old man.

“Not blaming you lad, just seeing the way things are.”

“I wasn’t even here. This has nothing to do with me. Don’t go throwing around wild accusations like that!”

“Now calm down, Healer-”

“Anders, love, what’s going on?” Hawke was on him before the old man could finish, a warm, comforting arm once again around his waist. “You sound like this guy is blaming you and you’re getting very worked up over it. It’s just a statue, Anders.”

“I’m not blaming anyone,” the man insisted, and Anders felt like he was being strangled.

Air was coming difficultly and the warm, protective arm around his waist was restraining him, restricting him. It was hurting him and he needed to get away.

_It was his fault. The man was speaking of Emile, of his guilt for letting him be taken to the Gallows. It was his fault and he needed to fix it._

Hawke shouted after him in surprise when he broke free and fled, but it was the old man’s sigh he heard last.

“And there he goes escaping again.”

...

Anders was done escaping. He was done with fear and guilt.

It had been foolish to let Hawke take Emile back, he could agree with that now. Emile might be a hopeless case, but the Gallows was no place for anyone to be locked into. He would get Emile right back out and put him on a ship to Ferelden, where the situation for the mages had improved tremendously since the Hero of Ferelden - a _mage_  - put King Alistair on the throne. Fereldens liked mages now.

Sort of.

Much better than Meredith, in any case.

Anders still didn’t like the idea of sending a mage back to a Circle, but the Circle of Ferelden would be infinitely better than the Gallows.

How to get Emile accepted to the Circle there without him being locked away as an escapee slash apostate was another matter, but he had time until he put Emile on a ship to mull that over. Possibly give him a letter and tell him to go straight for the Templars once he arrived in Amaranthine or whatever port the ship he’d find willing to take a mage would land in. Would Emile be so eager to hand himself back over to the Templars though?

Anders knew he sure wouldn’t, if it were him.

He gathered all he needed from where it lay spread over Hawke’s room, trying not to think about what activities had gotten them so spread out last night - may be dirty, may be that blighted dog again, seeing the chew marks on his staff - and strapped himself into the new enchanted boots Hawke had gotten him.

As ready as he would be, he took the route down the basements straight to his clinic to pack up some potions before heading into the sewers, knowing the path to sneak into the Gallows by heart.

Emile wouldn’t be the first he’d break out.

If he was lucky, they had put Emile in the cells for escaping, but didn’t care to put up many Templars to guard him there. Everyone seemed to have agreed Emile was more danger to himself than anyone else, even Meredith.

If that luck was on his side, Emile would be easy enough to break out. If not... Anders would burn that bridge when he got there.

It was perhaps already a matter of luck that Hawke didn’t catch up with him before he could sneak out of the mansion. He didn’t know if Hawke had decided to follow him, but if he did he apparently didn’t expect Anders to go straight home.

Nor was he waiting for him at the clinic, making Anders all the more hopeful his lover had let him go to cool off and simply went to drink as planned. He would gladly ignore the small twinge of hurt at that thought for the sake of savouring the luck he had so far.

Hawke was a busybody, but Anders had been clear about sometimes needing his space, just for a little bit. If Hawke had decided to give him that space now of all times, it would still be at most an hour before he’d worriedly come after Anders anyway.

And Hawke would not like it when he found out Anders had been home to get his gear and then left again.

As Anders slipped quietly down the ladder into the sewers he momentarily worried that maybe he _should_  have waited for Hawke. Maybe he _should_  have made sure he had some back-up before breaking into the Gallows.

But he had no time to worry about that now. Not to mention everyone would disapprove of the plan and work against him rather than with him. Even Hawke with his normally pro-mage attitude had been more than happy to hand Emile back to Meredith and her mad cronies.

Even Hawke had been so heartless, and Anders had let him.

Anders bit his lip in quiet anger at himself, running down the caves and corridors full of sewage to the sewer entrance of the Gallows. It was quite the walk, deep down where the weight of earth and the bay between Kirkwall and the Gallows felt suffocating, too dark, too musty - like the Deep Roads _like a dark solitary cell with no way out, like dreams of dark mazes in the Fade that locked him up as surely as a locked door in a cell_  - and he had no patience to walk calmly. Not without Hawke’s bright presence beside him to stave off his nervousness about the enclosed space.

Without Hawke it was a lot easier to sneak by the lyrium smugglers though.

Anders knew where their hideouts were, and he’d long since learned to sneak quietly by the use of specialised barrier spells since his time in the Wardens. Nobody liked fighting darkspawn when you could sneak by them instead.

So he also managed to find his way into the dungeons of the Gallows much faster than he would’ve with Hawke’s back-up, a victory with a bitter aftertaste.

He listened at the grate he’d be passing through for the sound of Templars - too easy to detect with their full plate armour and tinny breath through their helmets - and when it seemed to be quiet, he carefully hefted the cast iron grate from its place. It brought him in the literal cesspit of the dungeons, but he’d have to make a concession or two to save a life.

He waited another few seconds to listen in case the noise of removing the grate had been heard before carefully stepping into the mess before him, grimacing at the squishy sound beneath his boots.

_Maker, he should not have worn the new boots._

He reached above his head to grasp the upper edge of the pit and once he got a firm grip - he would not dwell on what the slippery patch was - he breathed in deeply and lifted himself up and onto the edge.

“Blighted strength is not what it used to be,” he huffed under his breath, muscles in his arms aching at having to lift himself bodily from that position. Hawke had been making him eat to fatten him up, but failed to make him train his strength to compensate the added weight. He’d have to talk the warrior into helping him exercise more.

No Templars in sight in this corner though. Just plates of suspicious looking food already dished out, ready to be brought to the prisoners at the right time.

Anders wrinkled his nose at the thought of how long this would be standing here before getting to be eaten. He’d received his fair share of mouldy meals himself in his times in dungeons.

He pressed against the wall next to the door of this storage cell to peek out, spotting a Templar on either side of the normal dungeons. Still no sound, so it was to hope Emile was even here.

If Emile was not locked away in punishment for escaping... or worse, if Emile was put away in the lower cells in solitary...

At least the Templars weren’t particularly alert. Probably bored. Guarding mages securely locked away behind bars inscribed with mana draining runes was not the most exciting task, usually.

Usually, because they didn’t normally get help from the outside.

Anders cast a sleep spell over both Templars quietly. They were rather noisy in dropping back against the walls behind them and sliding down, so Anders waited another few seconds to listen intently.

“’Ave I become zo borin’ you fall azleep now? Wazn’t zat my job ‘ere, hein?”

Bless the Maker for small mercies, even if they came with an Orlesian accent.

Anders tiptoed over to the closest Templar to give him a deeper, more thorough sleep, more like the type of temporary coma he put patients in before a particular painful treatment. That would last the Templar much longer than the flimsy sleep spell, considering Anders’ entropy skills weren’t really up to par with his healing.

While sneaking over to the other, Emile spotted him.

“Ello? Weren’t you zat man wiz the Champion earlier? What are you doin’ ‘ere?” Anders ignored him for a moment in order to put the second Templar into a deeper sleep too, triggering the next line of questioning. “What are you doin’ to zose Templars? Where did you even come from, hein? Is zis a darin’ rescue mission? I had asked to be rescued by a pretty lady, n’est-ce pas?!”

“Well, sorry for disappointing you.” Anders rolled his eyes, crouching before the cell door to study the lock.

Big key lock. The type of key jailers liked to jangle before their charges, so nothing either of these two had on their belts or he would’ve seen it already.

Good thing Nate also taught him the basics of lockpicking, and his magic was not blocked on the outside of the cell. A simple ice spell would allow him to forge the key on any pin fitting in the lock.

“I zuppose you are a fairly handzome rescuer. I shall retract my complaints if you can pick zat lock. A lockpickin’ mage iz as good as a pretty lady, hein?”

“You got your night with what’s-her-name at the Hanged Man, please stop complaining about my lack of boobs.” Anders slipped his dagger from the sheath to pick out the needle he kept in the seam, sticking the needle straight into the lock. He cast his ice spell while wiggling the needle, feeling the resistance grow as ice shaped into the lock.

“Easy as that,” he boasted, standing up and letting the ice form a proper handle on his make-shift key.

“Are you for real? Zat waz way too fast!”

“It’s called skill, my dear friend.” Anders turned the key and-

-the ice broke.

He cursed softly while Emile had the gall to laugh.

“A great skill, hein? Maybe I should wait for my pretty lady after all, becauze you don’t zeem to be half az competent az you pretend to be.”

“Ungrateful brat,” Anders muttered sourly, casting the ice spell again for another try.

This time the ice got entirely stuck in the lock, not letting itself be turned whichever way, but third time’s the charm.

The lock clocked open and Anders stepped back with a triumphant grin.

“Alright, zat iz impressive after all. Iz thiz ze moment I reward you wiz a kiss?” Emile was already pursing his lips and Anders quickly backed up another step.

“Please, spare me the gratitude. Besides, we’re not out yet. Follow me, and try to be quiet, would you?”

“Oh! Of courze, I’m right behind you!”

So far for quiet, anyway.

With a long suffering sigh Anders preceded his fellow mage to the cesspit he entered through, gesturing for Emile to jump in.

“What? You can’t be zerious, I’m not jumpin’ in zere!”

“I’m sorry to break it to you, but unless you want to be here when those Templars wake up again, you are _definitely_  jumping in there.”

“Eet iz a cesspit! Zese are clean robez and I-”

Anders unceremoniously shoved Emile into the cesspit, wincing at the squeal echoing through the dungeons and the wet squelch of a mage landing in shit.

“Maker give me strength... and patience” he prayed quietly before slipping into the pit himself.

Emile had already scrambled out through the grate to a relatively clean piece of ground, making quiet noises of despair and spreading his arms, shaking as if the shit would fall off him by itself. Anders ignored him in order to heft the grate in place, only acknowledging the nobleman with his complaints again once it was in place.

“I told you to get in, this is on yourself. Now, can you swim? If you do, we can take a shorter route and it’ll wash the shit off your precious clothes while we’re at it.”

“Swim? Are you inzane, man?”

Anders rolled his eyes before grabbing Emile’s shoulders and steering him down the right corridor. “No swimming then. Let’s get your shitty highness out of here before your complaining alerts the Templars. It’s a miracle nobody came to check up on the noise already.”

“Zey are uzed to me being noizy.” Emile really shouldn’t sound like he was proud of that fact, he really shouldn’t be. But for now, Anders would be quietly grateful.

“Okay, time for the bad news then.” Anders released Emile’s shoulders, preceding him down the maze of tunnels to hurry back towards the docks, casting a small mage light to light their way. He doubted Emile could walk in the dark without stumbling over every other rock like a rogue or a Grey Warden.

“I’m going to find you a ship to take you to Ferelden. How would you react if I asked you to hand yourself over to the Templars again when you arrive there?”

“What? What did you rescue me for if eet’z just to send me right back to the Templars, hein?”

“Because the Kirkwall Circle is the absolute worst of all Circles, and you’d be far better off in the Circle of Ferelden.” Anders stopped at a sound ahead, listening for a moment but sighing and turning a corner for a way around when Emile filled the silence with a reply.

“Eet iz not zat bad? Zey feed us and cloze us, I just wish zey would let us out a little more often, hein?”

“They lock you in cells, you get nightly visits from Templars and they scream bloodmagic if you so much as pop a zit in here. This place is _definitely_  that bad. Besides, in the Ferelden Circle you’ll get to kiss all the pretty girls with your uh, what was it? _Suave_  personality. Or one or two, at least.”

“Really? Zey allow zat in Ferelden?”

Emile was sounding a lot more interested in the idea now, which was a relief. As guilty as Anders felt about making Emile go back to a Circle, his conditions would improve tremendously if he agreed to going to Kinloch Hold, rather than getting caught back here or ending up face down in a ditch.

“Yes, everyone kisses everyone there. And if you’re quiet enough, any storage closet can be a scene of more heated activity. I once did it in the middle of the library at night, even.”

“You are jokin’! I bet ze Templars are just az borin’ in Ferelden az zey are here!”

“The Templars may be just as boring, they are also half as vigilant. Although there’s always a handsome Templar in for a good fuck too, and it gets you some nice bonuses to fraternise with them-”

Anders stopped abruptly at the sudden sound of clanging metal.

“Andraste’s frilly knickers... back through that tunnel and be quiet now.”

Emile’s quiet run wasn’t half quiet, but Anders followed after him nervously while casting his silencing barrier around them. The sound of metal on metal followed after them nonetheless, and before long Anders could hear metal clanging from another side too.

“Please let them just be smugglers,” he muttered, sending Emile down another tunnel away from the noise. They were heading up now, more towards Hightown than the docks, but anything was better than getting caught. If everything else failed they could go to Emile’s parents and try for a change of clothes and some money for Emile to make the trip to Ferelden. It was simply better if they didn’t know about this mess, though.

And then there was this particular clang of plate armour that Anders would know anywhere, because he’d heard it too many times with a Templar running after him fully armoured.

“Fuck, fuck _fuck_ -”

“Pleeze tell me you ‘ave a plan,” Emile panted, slowing down the further they ran. Anders grabbed the man’s arm to physically drag him further, knowing Emile had to already be pushing his limits with the running.

This was a mess.

“The plan is to run and not get caught,” he hissed in response, right before turning a corner and dragging Emile in with him.

It was a dead end, but a very dark dead end they could hopefully wait in for the Templars to pass. Anders let the light die out immediately and pulled Emile back against the furthest end of the cave, pushing him down to make himself as small as possible.

“Eet stinks! I-”

“Shut up. Breathe quietly, don’t let them find us.”

Anders took his staff, sinking a little into a battle stance. He absolutely didn’t want to fight, but he’d fireball any Templar trying to come in here anyway.

The dark was suffocating. The sound of Emile’s breath was even louder than his own, which was at least something - _not alone, not locked away and alone_  - but it was so very dark and it felt like the walls were pressing in on them.

The walls, the ceiling, so very close and invisible in the dark. The air cold and humid deep under the bay of Kirkwall. Anders’ hands were shaking and he had to focus on his own breathing to keep from panicking.

How pathetic would that be, anyway? Hiding from Templars with a mage he needed to protect, and getting a panic attack over a bit of darkness! He couldn’t fail Emile again, and definitely not like that. He’d endure-

His breath hitched when he saw the entrance of their corridor brighten, the sounds of metal and running boots growing louder. Templars were running going to run by any minute now, and he had to be _quiet_.

Then the other side brightened as well, and suddenly there was an echo of running boots. It was no surprise that Templars came from both sides when they stopped in front of their corridor.

_Thanks a lot for that luck, Maker._

Anders didn’t wait, he knew they were done for the moment the Templars turned towards him. He conjured a fireball and threw it right at them, Emile behind him shrieking in surprise at the blaring heat. The Templars stumbled back, but they didn’t pause for long.

Anders got the chance to cast a glyph of paralysis between the Templars in himself and then the Silence hit from either side.

He wheezed for air, feeling suffocated and _empty_ , the enclosed space suddenly too big, like falling. Like falling endlessly, but he was still standing, Emile’s whimpering behind him grounding him.

The first two Templars got caught in the glyph and Anders swiftly stepped forward, knocking the blade of his staff through the eye of the helmet on the right, and then to the one on the left.

The Templars crumpled to the ground without a sound from their paralysed throats.

Sadly, the ones coming in after were not holding still for him to repeat that movement, nor did he have magic to cast another glyph.

He would not get defeated so easily though, he could surely take down a few more. He was able to block one sword coming down with his staff and surprise the Templar enough to twist the sword from his grip, the Templar clearly not expecting a mage with knowledge of melee combat. He missed the guy’s eyes when he stabbed though, cutting shallowly into his nose while the man stumbled away. Anders had to hurry to parry the second Templar and knock him over the head with the other side of his staff.

At least the one whose face he stabbed was wailing in pain for a little longer, but he had not hit the closest one hard enough. Before he could adapt his stance and try stabbing with the blade on his staff again he was knocked back harshly by a shield. A smite followed directly after, crashing him into the wall over Emile.

The younger mage whimpered in fear and Anders nearly crumpled on top of him, struggling to get back upright with his weight right over another person.

He could not right himself fast enough to avoid the sword coming down and hacking hard into his upper arm though, his arm breaking with an audible crack.

Agony shot up through his arm a second later, and he barely managed to kick the Templar away. The Templar, heavy as he was in his armour, only backed away one step before he could raise his sword for a repeat performance.

Anders felt mildly ridiculous.

Here he was on a bold rescue mission to save some Orlesian noble brat from the Circle, after having allowed for him to be put there himself, about to get decapitated right on top of that snotty brat.

Emile would get killed or dragged back, but probably killed because of the resistance Anders had given.

Emile’s stupidity wasn’t his greatest danger to himself... Anders’ stupidity was. Justice was silenced into submission deep inside him, but there was always the chance he’d let Anders survive a mortal blow again like he did that very first time. That way Anders would get to live with the guilt and return to Hawke with his tail between his legs.

Or he’d die, and Hawke would not know what happened with his lover unless the Templars started boasting they killed the apostate from Darktown.

All incredibly unattractive options, both equally likely at this point.

Maybe, just maybe, it had been foolish to go save Emile by himself after all.

_But Hawke was not the Champion of Kirkwall if not for an excellent sense of dramatic timing and good hair._

Anders cringed away from the sword, but the blow never came. Instead came the tell-tale clack of one particular crossbow and a gurgling noise from the Templar. When Anders looked up the man had a bolt sticking from his throat, slowly collapsing backwards.

Garrett bloody Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, was just extracting his sword from another Templar, holding him down with one heavily armoured boot.

Anders went lax with sudden relief and Emile squawked beneath him, struggling to push Anders off. Anders had no energy - nor the strength in his limbs - to do anything about it, simply letting himself be pushed into a graceless heap on the cavern floor and only hissing in pain as this jostled his arm.

It was only the clatter of Hawke’s greatsword to the floor that alerted him before he was suddenly heaved up in his lover’s arms, Hawke’s face all kinds of worried now rather than the arrogant confidence of a second ago. Anders should have known better than collapsing in front of Hawke - a merciless killer one moment and a mother hen the next.

He hissed and whined, pushing with his good arm at Hawke’s grip to make it loosen around the broken mess of his left.

“Anders, you’re hurt! Can you heal- no wait those were Templars they probably silenced you so let me see that sit here-”

“Hawke! Calm down and breathe!”

Anders laughed awkwardly but allowed Hawke to set him down again, this time more comfortable with his back against the wall and his legs splaying out.

“How long until you can heal that, Love?”

“A few hours, I’ll be fine. I mean, I’ll be fine now you’re here.”

“Yes, better thank Sebastian’s tracking skills for that.” Hawke sat back on his haunches, the worry making place for a deep frown. “What were you thinking, going off to break into the Gallows by yourself?” Hawke glanced at the dirty mage by Anders’ side, and his frown deepened even further. “And to break out a guy we just brought there? Don’t you think it would’ve been better to stop me from bringing him back in the first place?”

“That would’ve been better, yes,” Anders muttered sheepishly. “I just... it was a spur of the moment. Emile deserves better than the Gallows, I wanted to send him off to Ferelden. The Circle there is a lot better than here.”

“And why not suggest that in the first place?”

“I only thought of it later!”

“That old guy at the Hanged Man was saying strange things to you, wasn’t he?”

Anders looked up at Varric, the dwarf sporting a rather amused looking smile. Varric was never particularly worried once a dangerous stunt had turned out for the better. Worrying afterwards was entirely Hawke’s job.

“He’s always like that. Isabela once said he’s as bad as a Rivaini seer, talking about omens and predictions and shit.”

“He was blaming you for the statue falling, wasn’t he?” Hawke gave Anders a sharp look, and Anders tried to shrink in on himself, uncomfortable under his lover’s scrutiny.

“Well, sort of. He was saying some vague stuff about how I was feeling guilty and running from my problems, and about doing foolish things. Said it was my guilt that made it fall. So I figured the foolish thing was letting Emile be locked away back into the Gallows and I had to fix it.”

“Huh, I’d say the foolish thing was you going here by yourself, but maybe that’s just me.” Varric was suddenly very interested in cleaning Bianca, and Anders really wanted to shrink even further as Hawke’s gaze returned to him.

“Hey, Love... if you frown any harder your eyebrows will end up in your beard, so uh, cheer up okay?”

Hawke’s eyebrows made a complete turn from down the bridge of his nose up into his hairline, and he turned his amazed look at Varric instead.

“Varric, you hear that? I should cheer up! I just found my lover being on the verge of getting killed because he was being a complete moron and I should _cheer up_.”

“Now now, Hawke, don’t be too harsh on Blondie now-”

“Oh of course. No, I won’t be too harsh on him, not after he nearly killed himself. I mean, what do I care, right? He’s just my lover, why would I be too harsh about being upset with him nearly getting killed? It’s not like I came running here as fast as I could to save his stupid arse.”

Anders cringed when Hawke all but heaved him to his feet by his good arm, keeping a tight grip on his wrist when turning and starting to stalk off.

“Let’s go home.”

“But Hawke- I mean I still need to get Emile-”

“Don’t worry Blondie, I’ll take care of that.”

He levelled Varric with a filthy glare that said ‘traitor’, recieving an apologetic look and a shrug in return. Anders turned that same apologetic look to Emile as the younger mage was crawling up to his feet wobbly, even if he had very little time with how Hawke was dragging him out.

“For what eet’z worz, I’m very grateful you saved me, Zerah!” Emile called after them.

“No problem,” Hawke bit off before Anders could answer, making him cringe again despite the pain it caused in his shoulder. His shoulder, which was starting to feel like one very big bruise for the broken bone underneath.

For a moment Anders worried Hawke was going to drag him out through the sewers just like that. Hawke wasn’t waiting for the two rogues he brought or Emile, and like this they wouldn’t make a good figure if they got attacked again. Formidable as Hawke was, he still had only one sword and the lyrium smugglers all but swarmed like ants down here.

To his relief he heard the click of Bianca behind them as Varric hung the weapon to his back, as well as the hurried squelching from Emile’s boots as they followed. No doubt Sebastian was making up their rear as well now, for the archer would not want to be left down here by himself.

Hawke released his death grip on Anders’ wrist after only a few steps, quickly glancing around at Anders with a worried look before facing forward again and stomping off silently.

It made Anders feel all the guiltier.

He had little doubt that he was not supposed to have seen that look. Hawke was upset with him over this stupidity, and he was going for anger, but clearly he had been worried sick. That’s what Hawke did.

And it was Anders’ fault. Not to mention Hawke had been right to be worried.

Anders really messed this one up today.

...

Hawke was not too harsh.

Definitely not too harsh, even if Anders was forced to whimper and complain like a little child to keep Hawke from undressing him too roughly.

And the way he splashed buckets of cold water over Anders to get the initial shit and blood off him was none too gently either.

Oh, and he could’ve let the heat runes heat that bathwater just a little less. Anders felt like a lobster being boiled when Hawke all but planted him in the tub and grabbed a wash cloth to scrub him off.

“I’m really sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to worry you, I hoped it would just be a ‘hop in, hop out’ kinda rescue-”

“Why didn’t you ask me.”

There was no question in Hawke’s tone, even if it was phrased as one. Hawke’s voice was flat and unhappy, making Anders shudder despite the hot water.

“I... I didn’t think you’d approve.”

“Why?”

“Because... because you put Emile back in the Gallows.”

“And you let me.”

“I... well yes, but I realised later that it was a real bad idea and-”

“And you didn’t think I could change my mind too if you proposed the idea? You realise I could’ve put a solid argument in with Meredith that she should officially transfer Emile to Ferelden without having to break him out and getting in all sorts of trouble killing Templars again?”

“I... but... ouch, Hawke...” Anders whined when Hawke scrubbed particularly roughly in the armpit of his good arm, trying to pull away. “Okay so I messed up. I’m sorry, I really am.”

“You better be, considering you were inches of losing your life.”

“Yeah, I noticed that. I was quite aware of how stupid the whole plan was in that second before Varric shot the guy and I promise I won’t do it again.”

Hawke dropped his hands to the edge of the bathtub with a heavy sigh, wash cloth clenched in a tight fist.

“I’m not sure if you quite realise how I felt today, Anders. When I came back home to find you gone, and Bodahn told me you’d left for the clinic all decked out for battle. And when I finally found you, about to be cut down by a Templar like bloody wheat. Do you... do you have _any_  idea, Anders...”

Boy, did he ever. Anders imagined it may be something close to how he felt when hearing Karl’s flat voice and then finding the brand on his forehead.

Anders shifted up on his knees, leaning over to hug Hawke tight with his one good arm.

“I’m sorry, Love. It was foolish of me and I promise it won’t happen again.”

He felt Hawke’s shoulder sag under his embrace, and he sighed in relief. Apparently that had sounded sincere enough for Hawke to believe him.

He leaned back again to meet Hawke’s eyes, and they had softened, still unhappy but no longer distressed. Hawke moved in to kiss him carefully, and with that Anders knew he was forgiven.

Mostly forgiven, anyway.

“Next time, I won’t let you get away with such stupidity this easily, Love. Never _ever_  scare me like this again.”

“I won’t,” Anders promised fondly, kissing Hawke again. “Else you can spank me right until I learned my lesson, ‘kay?”

That intrigued quirk of Hawke’s eyebrow was... worrying.

Anders laughed awkwardly and quickly sat back down in the water, and suddenly Hawke was smirking.

“Alright Anders... I’ll hold you to that.”

“Maker... get on with that furious scrubbing you were doing here and forget I ever said that.”

“You wish, Love.” Hawke pecked his nose playfully, and Anders knew he was fully forgiven now.

Oh, but at what cost.

Anders whimpered quietly to himself. His stupidity knew no bounds today, it seemed.

**Author's Note:**

> Find the Handerlympics at handers-time.tumblr.com!!


End file.
